


Of Body And Mind

by versaphile



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s04e08 Human Nature, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-24
Updated: 2007-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene for Human Nature. The second week the Doctor spent as John Smith, he had a cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Body And Mind

Time Lords didn't get ill. Injured, poisoned, even killed if someone tried hard enough or was extremely persistent, but on the whole the Doctor took his health for granted. He loved his humans, but they were so fragile, easy prey for any passing bacteria or virus. They lacked his exquisitely engineered immune system, and he tried not to pity them for it.

The second week the Doctor spent as John Smith, he had a cold. It disturbed him, in that absent way John Smith perceived the world. So many things felt distant and unreal, important yet irrelevant. John remembered having colds before, being given chicken soup by his mother, Verity. He remembered having the measles and chicken pox as a child. Yet none of those memories had prepared him for the lethargy he experienced, for the congestion and aching and constant expulsion of phlegm. Nurse Redfern came to look after him, bringing him fresh handkerchiefs and, yes, chicken soup. He was so miserable that the matron took pity on him, caring for him as if he was one of her charges. 

Her hand was cool on his forehead. He was used to humans always being so warm. He remembered thinking that, when she touched his fevered brow, and felt very odd, like the world was loose around the edges. He passed it off as an effect of his illness.

"Not much of a fever," Nurse Redfern said, checking the glass thermometer. "I'm sure you'll be recovered in no time."

"I feel quite ill," he'd admitted, though it was improper to admit weakness, even to a nurse. But he did feel utterly awful, hot and cold both at once, head stuffed with wool, throat sore from coughing. Surely this was more than a simple cold. He asked her if it might be influenza, and she shook her head.

"Truly, Mister Smith. It's only a cold." She said it such fond authority that he found it impossible not to believe her.

He slept fitfully that night, head full of impossible things. The dreams had begun to disturb him, and he thought he might start writing them down. He wondered if his illness was making him hallucinate. Martha, his maid, appeared in strange dress, and they were in the Globe theatre, of all places. It didn't even exist anymore, hadn't for centuries, yet before the dream faded it was as vivid as any memory, perhaps moreso. Strangeness upon strangeness.

Surely all dreams were strange, but he didn't remember his dreams before recently. When he wondered about that, how odd it was, the thought slipped away from him, and there had been boys to be scolded, and he'd needed to focus on his lesson plan. And then he'd taken ill.

The covers were heavy and hot, but when he pushed them off he shivered unbearably. His pyjamas stuck to his back, and he thought briefly of a hand on his brow, soothing him. His mother, perhaps, though the hand he remembered was too young for that. His glass was empty, so he found his dressing gown and went for some water. It was still dark, and the school was quiet in the small hours. He thought about tea. Was tea as good for colds as chicken soup? He couldn't recall. Something about it felt... restorative.

He thought about ringing for Martha to make him tea, and decided against it. She was a good servant, very faithful, and he oughtn't disturb her sleep. Though she could be quite presumptive at times, talking above her station. He couldn't remember first meeting her, or who he'd inherited her from. His father, perhaps? His parents must have had servants, but he didn't remember any of them. And she was rather young to have been employed by his parents. He was fairly sure they were dead. 

That seemed an odd thing to not be sure about. 

He should have tea.

No, he should have an orange. He checked his dressing gown, but his pockets were empty. Why was that strange?

He walked over to the mantle, and picked up his watch. It was broken. He ought to have it fixed. He put it back down again, and stared into the mirror. 

Time passed. 

He was pulled back to himself by a sudden, rather large sneeze, and he fumbled for a handkerchief. His nose was sore and reddened, and he ought to lie down. Sleep, that's what he needed, a good healthy rest. 

He woke to the grey light of dawn as Martha pulled aside the curtains.

"Good morning," she said, far too cheerily, then looked at him with concern. "You didn't sleep like that all night, did you? No wonder you're ill."

He was still in his dressing gown, and had fallen asleep on top of the blankets. He felt quite chilled, especially his feet. "Um," he said. 

"Hopeless, you are," Martha said, shaking her head. She poured him a cup of tea.

He sipped it, then coughed so badly that Martha had to rescue his cup before it spilled. She set it on his bedside table and rubbed his back in soothing circles. Presumptive, he thought, but felt too miserable to bother arguing. 

"Back under the covers," she told him, and before he knew it she'd coaxed him out of his dressing gown and tucked him in. "Drink your tea. There's plenty of honey and some lemon. I'll bring you some toast, all right?"

He'd nodded dumbly, confused and not sure how he was supposed to react or wanted to react, and mostly wanting to be cared for. The strength of the last took him by surprise.

The Headmaster came by to check on him, disappointed that his newest employee was unable to fulfill his duties. "Bad example for the boys, laying about all day," he'd said, back straight as a post and chin in the air. 

"Of course, Headmaster," John had agreed. "Terribly sorry for the trouble."

For that he'd received a curt nod. "Back on your feet soon," the Headmaster had said, as if he could order a cold away. 

Nurse Redfern returned not long after, and it appeared Martha had spoken out of turn again. "Look at you. Wandering about at night and sleeping without a blanket. Anyone would think you want to be ill."

He felt he ought to be affronted by the accusation, but it had been rather foolish in hindsight. "I was thirsty," he said, by way of defending himself.

"Then I will have Martha leave a pitcher by your bedside tonight." She felt his forehead and tutted, then placed the thermometer between his teeth. "If nothing else we can't have you spreading this to the boys. I have quite enough work to do." There was a hint of worry under the formality, and she frowned when she checked his temperature. "This won't do at all."

She gave him instructions, mainly to stay in bed and keep warm, and if he need anything at all he must ring for it and not go wandering. She was quite firm about that.

By midday the fever had worsened. Martha held a compress to his head, and kept the fire blazing. Even as he shivered he complained that it was too warm and stuffy, and then he was coughing again. When he dozed, it was lightly, and he heard Martha talking to herself, saying strange words he didn't understand, though they sounded vaguely medicinal, with Latin roots. She cursed at the year, which made no sense at all.

Nurse Redfern appeared again, looking worried, and he closed his eyes and dreamed of heat and metal and the sun, burning him from the inside, searing his flesh, his mind. Someone was holding him down, and he was aware that he was babbling, frightened fever-speech, and dream-Martha was telling him to stay calm, saying that she's got him. He'd never felt so hot. He was burning, burning up, shivering and burning.

The fever broke, and he slept too deep for dreams to reach.

He woke to another grey dawn. Someone had changed his pyjamas and the bedsheets. He felt weak as a child but somehow better, and tried to sit up. Martha was there, looking simultaneously worried and relieved, and she fluffed his pillows and helped him up.

"Feeling better?" she asked, already holding out a cup of tea. He took it with shaky hands, and breathed in the hot, sweet steam. 

"Yes, thank you," he rasped, taking careful sips. His throat was sore beyond what it had been from coughing, and he wondered if he'd been shouting. How embarrassing. 

"Good," Martha said, patting his shoulder. "Wouldn't want to lose you." She gave him a smile that carried too much meaning, and started tidying up his already neat room. 

Nurse Redfern returned, and was similarly relieved. "Ninety-eight degrees," she said, pronouncing him on the mend. "I'll tell the Headmaster that you'll be back to work soon, but you're to rest for today. I insist that you avoid any exertions until you're fully recovered."

He nodded obediently. He could feel his chest clearing, the ache leaving his bones. It was odd how he hadn't thought of health until this illness, and now he felt its importance so keenly.

He found himself watching Nurse Redfern. The morning light caught her profile in a way that he wished to sketch onto paper. Did he draw? Paint? He must do. He thought of watercolours, and that felt right. Her eyes were grey, but somehow warm. He found himself smiling, hesitantly.

"Perhaps some more of your nourishing soup?" he asked, unaccountably shyly.

Nurse Redfern hesitated, meeting his eyes with unusual directness, and then she looked away. "Of course. I'll have Martha bring it soon." She stood.

He felt disappointed. He wanted to ask her to stay. He couldn't. It would be terribly improper.

"I have quite a lot to do today. You know how boys are, always needing looking after," she said, sparing him a glance and a small smile. It seemed intended to make him feel better, but didn't. 

"Yes," he said, when he wanted to say the opposite. Wanted, of all things, to be ill again. Ridiculous. 

She paused at the door, half-turned to him. "I look forward to seeing you well," she said, in a breathy rush, and then she was gone.

 

End.


End file.
